


Ruminations of a Murder

by grimeysociety



Series: Hollywood [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Divorce, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Stephen Strange, Recreational Drug Use, Zero the Cat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimeysociety/pseuds/grimeysociety
Summary: English filmmaker Stephen Strange struggles with his creative immobility as he attempts to write the third of his critically-acclaimed American Crime trilogy. Overwhelmed by his personal and work life, an almost constantly inebriated Strange embarks on yet another attempt at monogamy, before being called back to his home country for his widowed father's 75th birthday.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers/Original Male Character(s), Wanda Maximoff/Stephen Strange
Series: Hollywood [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1437178
Comments: 39
Kudos: 30





	1. i. Boogie Nights (1997)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Robin Williams screaming "Good morninggggggggggg, Vietnam!" - I am finally, finally back here, where I belong. This series is the love of my creative life, and I'm so glad to get this started. 
> 
> Stephen with his semi-permanent galaxy brain is going to be a rollercoaster. Thank you to the five of you that were waiting for this. I'll set up a little campsite and hope to come back frequently. I love you. ❤
> 
> [my Tumblr](http://grimeysociety.tumblr.com/)

_And don't let me ruin me_  
_I may need a chaperone_  
**\- "Daredevil" by Fiona Apple**

**i. Boogie Nights (1997)**

The cool, hard floor of marble meant he was at least waking up inside. The worst hangovers were the ones that began in the backyard, when he’d passed out somewhere the sun could reach for hours at a time. He’d had several weird sunburns in the last several months because of that. He blinked slowly, peeling his face from below, a spike of pain going across the front of his skull, causing him to wince. 

He heard approaching footsteps, seeing a pair of maroon boots, his eyes not yet reaching his visitor’s face.

It was Wanda Maximoff. He must have left the front door unlocked again. 

“Stephen. Are you awake?” 

He foot prodded his shoulder, Strange’s hand scrubbing his face as he drew in what he hoped to be a fortifying breath. He was trying to piece together last night. It was aware of the tequila at the beginning, but the rest was sort of a blur…

“Anyone else here, or are you alone?” she said, not showing any signs of sympathy. 

He managed to sit up, squinting up at her. He didn’t smell of vomit at least, but he knew from the scowl on her face, the familiar look of female disappointment, that he stank regardless.

“Why?” he drawled, his throat dry. “Worried about somebody snooping?”

She didn’t rise to the bait. She had the ability to be appealing in whatever mood she was in. She had the face of an actress. He’d wondered if she’d ever tried that before she became an agent, but he hadn’t got so far to ask her that yet. 

“You haven’t been answering your phone for the last few days,” she said, her tone shifting. If this was her version of concern, he didn’t want it. He’d rather she went back to being a mutual acquaintance since in the last year, that had all changed.

“As you can see, I’m in one piece,” he said. “Did Debra -?”

“You fired Debra,” Wanda cut in, her brows knitting, her tongue sharper once more. “Or, she fired _you_. A month ago. And she wants to start her own agency for star-assistants.”

“An enterprise?” he mumbled, and he glanced away, trying to recall this. “Ah, yes. She did mention wasting her twilight years on my… shenanigans.”

“So, the script? You get much of that done since I last saw you?” Wanda said, brows shifting upward.

He didn’t know how to answer that in any direct way. He was working on it, in his head. He was letting it mull over. He did that often creatively. While others planned, mapped out entire storylines, he did better with focusing on several currents at once, making connections, discarding what wasn’t necessary. He knew it drove a lot of collaborators wild with frustration, which was often why he preferred to work alone. He’d tried the conventional ways years ago, but it never really panned out. 

“It’s coming along,” he said, getting up. He got an immediate head rush and clutched the side of his face with a grimace, Wanda undeterred.

“Great, so can I have a copy of something for Bucky? If he’s still a producer?”

He glanced her way, before taking off down the hallway toward the kitchen. His perception could be off, but everything felt as if it were simultaneously too fast and too slow, his feet sliding a little on the tiles. At least he was wearing clothes. His silk robe covered his bony form, his ridiculously long legs and arms. He scratched his beard, remembering its existence in the motion, reaching the fridge to find something to drink.

“Of course he’s a producer, he was always going to be,” he retorted. He opened a glass bottle, sniffing it, unsure what type of milk he had inside. Perhaps oat. It was never dairy. He was doing a plant-based cleanse again, excluding whatever pharmaceuticals or alcoholic beverages he put in his body, of course.

He put the glass bottle back and slammed the fridge door shut, Wanda appearing behind it, an expectant look on her face.

“Don’t do that, you look like several ex-wives at once right now,” he drawled, putting two hands up, his bell sleeves slipping down to his elbows. “I am too sober to deal with any of them right now.”

“You don’t seem sober, Stephen,” Wanda retorted. “And you should eat something solid, not have a liquid lunch.”

“What time is it?” he said, distracted, reaching for the liquor cabinet. 

This was one of several in his house. He uncapped a bottle of Skyy vodka and poured a glass, his eyes swinging back to Wanda. He towered over her, he remembered.

“It’s after three. I think calling it lunch was me being polite,” she murmured. She licked her lips. “I’m gonna go.”

“ _Lovely_ to have you,” Strange said, putting on his posher accent, Wanda’s eyes rolling. “You know the way out, I gather?”

“I shouldn’t,” she called, when she was walking out the door.

He took a gulp of vodka, smacking his lips as he heard the eventual slam of his front door. He looked down at his glass and drew in a breath, thinking about his laptop sitting in his office on the other end of his house. He remembered Zero and how he’d circle him as he wrote. He remembered smoking in the backyard with Bucky, laughing about something ludicrous that had happened in the industry. 

He threw back the rest of the vodka, already pouring himself more as his throat burned. 

-

New Order was playing as he leaned on the back of a couch. He couldn’t remember whose house it was he was in, but there were a lot of young people weaving through the crowd. He felt eyes on him every so often. These people were would-be actors. At least this wasn’t a producer party. They were all simply flattery with rich men, and depending on the types of producers they were, wives or working girls would mill around. He’d been inadvertently invited to a swinger’s party more than once, too. He’d enjoyed it, as far as he could remember any of it, images and sensations always fuzzy around the edges.

There were cigarette burns on the upholstery, the air was stifling. The weather, as nice as it had been when he’d first moved to California years ago, had begun to get on his nerves. He’d begun to miss rain and snow, though he’d sworn he never would. White Christmases had always felt cold and too idealistic, and most years he was lucky to remember it was December 25th when it came around.

He took out his phone, contemplating a number of contacts, but none felt that appealing to him. Perhaps it was age, or simply him being so tired all the time, but he couldn’t make himself message anyone. 

He’d only left the house because nothing was more tragic than yet another night in front of his projector with his open bar all to himself. 

He had Wanda’s number, he remembered. She was listed as Maximoff, nothing else. She’d hate to get a call from him, so much so that he briefly considered it for the amount of laughter it would cause. 

He smirked down at his phone, feeling a hand on his wrist. 

“Hello, I thought you were looking very sad all by yourself,” came a voice.

He glanced at the source. A tall, skinny young woman with shiny black hair and a belly button ring on display beamed at him. She had a gap in her teeth, reminding him of Darcy, the muse that was currently out of reach. 

“But then you were smiling,” she added.

Very young. He knew she was too young for him, a generational gap for certain between them, but her eyes had an intelligence to them. Definitely an actress, though he couldn’t name her face.

“I’m Poppy,” she murmured.

“Stephen,” he said, offering a hand, which she took to shake. 

She was wearing torn daisy dukes, a pair of cowboy books and a tiny crochet top. He couldn’t stop staring at her, her grin widening. 

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I’m over eighteen, if you want an ID,” she said immediately, but she didn’t seem fazed. 

She took out her wallet, producing a little laminated driver’s license. Her picture showed a similar smile. She was twenty-two. 

“Capricorn,” she murmured. He noticed the silver star stickers she had on her cheekbones. 

She looked like she could be passing through. The address on her licence was from Indiana. He watched her tuck it away. 

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he said, and she gave a breath of a laugh. 

“You don’t give me Earth sign vibes,” she murmured. She looked him up and down. “Very intense, though.”

“Scorpio,” he said, leaning in to tell her, and she glanced at his mouth.

“Oh, they’re one of the _best_ ,” she said. “So fun.”

She didn’t make him feel old. She was one of those women that mesmerized him. He’d married women like her. He always had the same thought when he meant them, knowing he was about to follow through anyway:

_This one is going to destroy me._

-

He cracked an eye open, lifting his head from a pillow he knew wasn’t his. He was on the bottom of a pile, the air already too warm. A cicada had woken him. 

He could smell weed, and some type of spiced drink. Mulled wine, perhaps. He hadn’t had that in years, not since one winter back in England, before all this. 

He was naked. The girl on top of him was, too. He remembered it was Poppy, not her true name according to her license, not that he could recall what it was. 

She shifted, moving to yawn. He saw her armpits weren’t shaved, something that seemed to spark his interest by how he stared at her, his eyes dipping to her bare chest for a second before he glanced to her pinched face.

“Did we-?”

“Did we fuck?” she mumbled. She burst into a grin. “Of course.”

“And…?”

He was referring to the other girls littered around them. He couldn’t place any of their names. 

“No. But any visitors we have, we all sleep in the same bed.”

He suddenly leaned up on his elbows, glancing down at his nakedness, seeing the other girls all around.

“You didn’t fuck anyone else,” Poppy said, not at all troubled by Strange’s bulging eyes. “But you were really horny. Like, so worked up. Kept telling me we’d make beautiful babies together-”

“I’m sorry,” Strange said, aware that he could be needy. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d subjected strangers to it before. “I was very drunk.”

“I thought it was sweet,” Poppy said. 

She leaned on her elbow, looking up at him.

“And you were fantastic.”

Strange didn’t care so much about that. He was trying to figure out where the fuck he was.

“We went to an afterparty, here,” Poppy went on. “Because I told you about my community, you got so excited.”

That sounded like him. 

“You want breakfast? I can make you a smoothie or something.”

Strange shook his head, managing to pry a mystery woman’s arm from his belly, carefully maneuvering himself to get up from the bed. 

The walls of the bedroom seemed to be clay, like he had slept in a shack. He glanced around, trying to find pants. 

“I’ll make myself a Bloody Mary,” he murmured, crouching to retrieve his wrinkled briefs from the dirt floor, yanking them on, tucking himself in place. “Would you have the time, darling?”

Poppy gave a chuckle. “No, Stephen.”

He shuffled out into the sunlight, glancing around. He saw the side of a hill, his eyes darting around to see a cactus.

He heard footsteps behind him and Poppy was there, stark naked in the sunlight, folding her arms over her chest, unbothered by her nudity.

“We’re in Joshua Tree. I think you put your phone under a rock over there.”

Strange promptly threw up on the ground, Poppy sighing.

“I stopped you from smoking PCP,” she murmured. “ _That’s_ not good for you.”

He didn’t want to know the context. He wanted to lie down again and forget the world, his ears ringing as he emptied the rest of his stomach onto the ground, the cicadas starting up again.


	2. ii. Born Yesterday (1950)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the 10 of you that read the last part 🤣❤ this AU is the equivalent of screaming into the void and hoping occasionally it screams back

_Girl are you down now?_   
_Oh yeah, I've been down for a time now_   
_Got a bed, I've been dead for a while now_   
_80 texts, haven't read for a while now_   
**\- "dog food" by 100 gecs**

**ii. Born Yesterday (1950)**

Strange had several interviews one morning, a few days after he managed to return from Joshua Tree. He had the first one at ten AM. He hadn’t been up before noon in months, and he wasn’t likely to repeat this behavior again, unless he pulled an all-nighter. 

Who he was during production of his last film felt like a distant memory, when it was only two years ago. He couldn’t reconcile that ride or die mentality. He’d spend twenty-hour days working, catching naps in-between watching dailies while everyone else went home to rest. He lived and breathed his art, and now he was doing interviews for a Criterion collection edition of _Ache and Bone_ , his second film ever made. Unfortunately since he’d more or less gone mainstream, his earlier attempts at filmmaking were sought after, even film school films were shared online for cinephiles, the concept nauseating to Strange.

Luckily, they were only phone interviews and he wasn’t expected to roll out of his bungalow. He remained on his couch, slumped on a cushion with his hand occasionally covering his eyes as he grimaced through each exchange. They seemed like decent enough people, no-one was asking him too much about his personal life. It all came across as awfully shallow. It was only right to start drinking after the first one was over. 

He sipped his vodka martini, having made it as he waited for the next call to come through, settling for three olives as he lowered himself back onto the couch. He took out his vape from his robe pocket and sucked on it, hoping a good hit of nicotine might calm himself into compliance. 

By the time it was over, he couldn’t recall a single question. He snatched up his remote for his flatscreen TV, forgoing using his projector, and flipped through some channels to find a film to watch. He sank further into the couch as he remembered vaguely that his new agent intended to speak to him, debrief him on what was coming up next. He needed to get out of it, somehow, all of it. He needed some excuse to not deal with all the bullshit anymore. 

-

He passed out, or he fell asleep. He woke up hours later, the sun setting, his head hurting and stomach gurgling as he got up from his lying position, grinding the heel of his palm into his eye. His phone was on the floor, and he snatched it up, blinking down at it blearily. 

“Hi, baby,” came a voice when he answered. “Would you open up?”

“What?” he mumbled, unable to recognize the voice. It was young and way too vibrant for how badly his head was pounding. His stomach grumbled loudly, and the caller giggled.

“You got the munchies? Come to the front door!”

He obliged, staggering down the hallway to the front door. For once he locked it, sometime in the last few days. The last time he left his house was either yesterday or the day before that, he couldn’t recall. Everything had been blending for weeks. 

He heard more than one voice from beyond, frowning a little as he flipped the lock, yanking the door open. He glanced down, seeing Poppy standing there, with a few of her little mates with her, all dressed like they were going to a music festival. Poppy, the clear ringleader, had jewels all over her face with little purple hearts drawn on either side of the bridge of her nose. 

“How did you find me?” he mumbled, and Poppy giggled.

“You texted me your address, I said I’d come over for a piercing party.”

She slipped into the house, Strange’s eyes following her, his eyes dipping to her rear end for two seconds, his confusion still paramount. 

“A… piercing party?”

“Oh, I love your accent,” said one of the other girls, a blonde with pigtails and braces. “It’s so cute.”

He didn’t speak to her, only frowned, watching the remaining girls walk in. Poppy lingered in the hallway as the others tapered off, moving toward Strange to wrap her arms around his neck. She pressed a kiss to his lips.

“More people are coming. I’m getting my fifth hole,” she murmured. 

“Your _what?”_

“My ear,” she said, turning her head a little to indicate her left ear, which had multiple rings in it. “I like them asymmetrical, y’know? It’s cooler.”

“That doesn’t deter anyone when you send in self-tapes?” Strange muttered, taking hold of her wrists to peel her from his body. 

He remembered the morning after he first met her, how he’d vomited so much that he was convinced he’d ruptured something. He was fine, somehow, and he’d had to call several people from a payphone outside a gas station to get someone to drive him back to L.A. It was a disaster, but he’d dealt with mornings like that before. Poppy only seemed to bounce around, untouchable, which he supposed had everything to do with her age. 

“I take them all out,” she said with a shrug. She took hold of his face, a little rougher than before, squishing his cheeks and leaning up to kiss him again. She pulled back. “Cheer up.”

She turned her heel, walking off. Strange still hung onto the front door, hearing the girls laughing and talking over one another in the next room, his head still sore. 

As the night went on, more people showed up. A dozen strangers were all crammed into his living room, ashing their cigarettes and joints all over the place, putting drinks on random surfaces. At one point, someone found one of his Oscars, holding it aloft.

“Holy shit, can I hold it?” one girl squealed, and it was passed to her by the man, who took it down from its spot on the very top of a closet, not waiting for Strange to give permission.

Strange’s phone began to buzz and he got up from the couch, eyes meeting Poppy’s along the way. He didn’t know why he’d invited her there, his libido was unpredictable or non-existent those days. He unlocked his phone and pressed it to his ear without checking the caller ID, his movements slower. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough, and his joint was long gone. He slipped into the kitchen, vaguely aware of the hunger he still felt from earlier.

“Stephen.”

“Wanda,” he replied, a little surprised to be hearing from her so soon. He suspected she put off reaching out to him, since every time she seemed to be so irritated by his presence. He pictured her doing something typically L.A. to wind down every time it was over, some crappy affirmations with deep breathing. Maybe she liked the godforsaken hiking he’d heard so much about. Those exercise endorphins had always eluded him. 

“I would ask if this is a bad time, but I followed the smoke signal,” she said, and he felt himself smirk. 

She was clever, and able to be funny when she wanted to. She was otherwise too serious, almost constantly scowling at him. He cleared his throat, pausing by the kitchen island, unsure of what he would like to eat if he had an appetite in the first place. He had maids in the past, and several years ago he had a personal chef, too. He’d lost that chef in that particular divorce. 

“You may come in, I’m sure I left the front door unlocked,” he replied. 

She appeared a couple minutes later, her brows shifting upward as Poppy followed after her. The younger woman slipped in next to Strange, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Who’s this?” she asked, and Strange glanced Wanda’s way, Poppy’s thin arms wrapping around him. 

“I’m Wanda-”

“She’s James Barnes’ agent,” Strange cut in, his voice like velvet. “She’s come here to scorn at our fun.”

“You should stay, we’re having a piercing party,” Poppy said to Wanda, her eyelids heavy, but her smile semi-permanent. “It’s the weekend.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Wanda said, her eyes shifting back to Strange. “I came by to ask again about the script.”

“What script?” Poppy asked, and she was ignored. 

“It’s coming along,” Strange said, lifting a finger to tap his temple. 

Wanda rolled her lip between her teeth, sighing. “Yes, but on paper?”

“Not quite,” he said. “I would have thought Bucky was busy enough as it is-”

“I’m going to make drinks,” Poppy announced, as she walked away, Wanda not saying a word until they were alone. 

She folded her arms, lifting her chin at Strange.

“How old is she?”

“Old enough,” Strange muttered. He leaned back against the island, knowing if he was anywhere near sober he’d be defensive on his part, not Poppy’s. 

There was a loud cheer from the living room and Wanda bristled.

“Can we please go somewhere more private?” she asked, lowering her voice. 

Strange shrugged, Wanda moving toward the back door, slipping out into the night as he went to the liquor cabinet, filling a glass with Fireball whiskey, touching his robe pocket to check he still had his vape with him. 

He walked out, finding Wanda in one of the garden chairs, her handbag on the ground. The last time she was out here was when Darcy and Bucky got married at the bottom of his garden. Thinking of them now made his guts twist. He knew it was guilt that ate away at him every time he thought of the Barnes clan. 

“How old is she?” Wanda murmured, and Strange sat down beside her with a sigh, his chair scraping in the dirt. 

“She’s twenty-two,” he replied, gulping some Fireball, licking his lips when he swallowed. “Are you going to tell me I’m too old for her?”

“No,” she retorted. She sounded weary. “You not writing a screenplay is starting to make a lot more sense. I’m trying to keep Bucky’s work life as stress-free as possible-”

Strange snorted derisively. 

“-and knowing you’re out here, when you have no idea what you’re doing, isn’t gonna help.”

She leaned forward, staring into space, shaking her head. “I don’t want to question Bucky’s unwavering fucking faith in you, but…”

“But you think I’m a rube,” Strange said, and her eyes snapped to his.

“I think you’re brilliant,” she countered, which surprised Strange. 

He glanced away first, wishing he’d black out already. He didn’t want the in-between. He wanted a hangover and solitary confinement. He didn’t need her large, worried eyes staring back at him. 

“Why don’t you go somewhere, dry out? Go to your place in Palm Springs,” Wanda murmured.

He couldn’t block out the memories that resurfaced in rapid fire in his mind’s eye. Of the multitude of reasons for not returning any of Darcy’s calls lately, Palm Springs was the main contender. He only thought of the bottles of pills Bucky had stolen, all his, from the medicine cabinet, after the spectacular row he’d instigated. 

It was the night Darcy had a miscarriage, and Bucky was already on a knife’s edge, and then he had goaded him into a meltdown. At the time, he was certainly drunk and stoned, but he hadn’t expected Bucky to attempt suicide. His brain somehow didn’t make the connection in time, and they’d all paid for it.

“Okay, maybe not Palm Springs,” Wanda said, and Strange frowned, glancing away.

“I need to get rid of that place.”

They fell silent, Strange remembering Bucky slumped over, Steve trying to make him throw up. Strange had a nosebleed from the punch Bucky gave him, but he couldn’t remember that physical pain among all the rest. 

Strange drained the rest of his glass, putting it on the ground when he was done, throat burning enough to distract him, his hand already plunging into his pocket to take out his vape. He put it to his lips, taking a drag as he glanced skyward. 

“I’m just so bloody… _uninspired!”_ he yelled, Wanda jolting.

He sat back with an aggravated sigh, glaring at the sky. No stars, of course. Too much pollution where he lived.

“What’s the story supposed to be about?” Wanda asked, quiet. 

He looked at her, her eyes steady. He blinked slowly. 

“Love. Isn’t it always about love?” he muttered.

She tilted her head. “Stephen.”

“It’s about marriage,” he added, passing a hand over his face. “And… regret, and… time… and…”

“So what in your life could help jog that writing thematically?” Wanda said. “I’d say you’re the person I know with the most experience with marriage-”

“There we go,” he muttered.

“I’m serious, you could consider working backwards,” Wanda said. “Do you have journals, or pictures, maybe some photo albums?”

“Probably not,” he muttered, shrugging. He took another drag of his vape, exhaling sharply. “I just have… people, scattered all over.”

He frowned, pulling in a deep breath. There was a distant cheer from inside and Wanda turned her head. His eyes followed the movement of her muscles, and he glanced away, his mind shifting gears.

“People,” he said again, slower. “People scattered all over - YES!”

Wanda froze, eyes wider. “What?”

“Yes, I just have to work backwards, exactly,” he murmured. He was up from his chair. “I’ll need… my phone, money…”

“What is this?” Wanda said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m following your shrewd advice,” he said, pointing at her with his free hand. “I have some ex wives to visit.”

All Wanda did then was put her face in her hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](http://grimeysociety.tumblr.com/)


End file.
